Sharpen the Corners
by crackinthecup
Summary: Melkor's temper is not a gentle thing. Angbang.


**A huge heads-up for non-con and abuse.**

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"My lord, no, _no_ —" And even as Mairon pleaded, even as the words careened from his lips with all the urgency of the wrongness knotted in his stomach, he knew that it was futile.

Minutes had trundled past, swaying with protests and his master's mounting ire. And now Melkor backhanded him, savage strength hurled behind the clout; it sparked across his skin, grinding into bone, swiveling his head with the sickening crunch of vertebrae. Several paces he stumbled backward, but though he cringed into the wall, he made no attempt to flee. It would have been fruitless, he reasoned with himself. He did not know what had so inflamed his master's temper; merely that a scuttling orc had delivered a crisp summons, that he had been too slow to extinguish the fires in his forge; that escape would be thwarted, the imprint of fingers seeping purple into his upper arm, and unfettered punishment his only reward.

"Please," he whimpered as the Vala reached for him. And whether it was the _please_ of horror, or of the swooping, swirling something simmering low in his belly—Mairon refused to contemplate. Magnificent loomed the sneer cracked across Melkor's features; low rumbled his growl as he lunged, and his fingers were steel into his lieutenant's flesh. He jerked the Maia by the arm, viciously yanking him through a tottering topple, onward, to the bed. Face-first Mairon was thrown upon the sheets; and from his sprawl across silks and pillows he tried to right himself, to wriggle away.

But Melkor was there, hands at his hips, bodily flipping him over. The brutal torsion smashed a grunt past his lips, and he was too stunned to react when his master's fingers tore at his tunic, plunging into the ripple of his abdominals. His breeches were next; the waistband lurched into his hips, and he gagged with the force of that impact, he winced to hear the squeal of leather as his trousers were peeled off.

Mairon made to sit up; he hoisted himself upon his forearms, to fight, to refuse. His thighs closed even as Melkor stared, as he frowned, and he knew it—deep in his very bones the knowledge throbbed and hissed like a gout of molten metal; he knew what would happen next, and as if in greeting a flush burst across his cheeks.

"No, I don't want this, I don't—" But his objections were elided into a gasp as Melkor shoved him down again, as his hands slid between his clenched thighs and wrenched them apart. And oh, how he longed to scream with the baseness of it all. Yet as his legs were nudged further apart, as he waited there all spread and panting, desire flamed a path to his stiffening length and at its familiarity a weak curl of nausea threaded through him.

"I do not believe I allowed you to speak, Mairon." The Vala's hands slipped from him to twist free the lacings on his own breeches, and his command dropped like the clang of a guillotine: "Keep quiet. We have done this before."

Yes, Mairon thought, he wanted to let it leach from him, to yank at his master's hair until roots splintered and their kiss tasted of rust. But as it was he clutched Melkor's order to him, in silence he lay back and half-wished that the Vala would have done with it.

Carelessly Melkor slicked himself up, rubbing glistening droplets of oil over his cock as his eyes lifted to his lieutenant's own. A feral smirk gashed across his face, glee so potent that it choked the air like the smell of spices—Mairon gutted the incipient roll of his hips into a juddering twitch. The Vala's smile widened with a gleam of too-sharp incisors.

Leaning over him his master grasped his hips, levering him into position, draping his legs around his waist. The tip of Melkor's length brushed against him—a half-aborted flinch shuddered through him, his muscles locked despite the tautness of his attempt to relax. Yet Melkor did not breach him; instead he stooped and kissed him on the lips, a tender, coaxing kiss that left him winding his arms round the Vala's neck, loosing a stilted sob into the tingle between their mouths. His eyes screwed shut and with a desperate little bubble of a noise he smashed their lips together until teeth scraped and blood spurted; in crimson rolls it trickled down his chin, and his master dipped his head, licked the tang back into his mouth. Mairon curled into the sensation, sick, heady as it was, touch descending into violence upon his master's flesh, into nails scoring furrows across his back; and with a groan his master obliged, his master allowed it.

Still his master kissed him, even as he sheathed himself to the hilt within him in one rending thrust. In a crush of capillaries Melkor wrestled his wrists to the mattress, and firmly he held him down as his back tensed into an arch, as his hips made to shimmy away from the agony of the stretch. The Vala withdrew only to slam back in at an angle that sent a jolt of rapture snapping through him; he swallowed the screams pattering from Mairon's lips, each quavering moan of pain as he rolled his hips, as he sank into a merciless rhythm.

And as the initial sting faded, as the burn dissipated, the tears clustering at the corners of the Maia's eyes finally smeared down his cheeks. His hands curled into fists in his master's grasp, and willfully he twisted in the vise of his fingers until the brutality of the touch rendered all feeling numb. Through each buck of the Vala's hips that one spot deep within him flared, his cock was jostled into an ache in the slick press of bodies, and in answer tiny moans darted from him, arrows he had never meant to loose.

Melkor panted at his ear; hot puffs of breath fanned over his skin as he drove himself yet harder into him, seemingly pinching each nerve into a pinprick of pleasure; or pain—long since had the line become eroded. His master shifted his wrists into the maw of one hand only, as the other groped downward to skid over his length. That brush of fingers solidified into sliding, wrenching strokes, and in the burning joy of a heartbeat his muscles clamped about his master's length, his hips stuttered upward—a groan rang on Melkor's lips; a groan he wedged to his lieutenant's neck with teeth and the stain of a bruise.

Each pass of his master's hand found his tip drooling, his flesh almost distressed in the tightness of the grip. His head thudded back, and as Melkor's mouth latched onto a spot just beneath his ear, he writhed, he chanted out a series of ragged breaths. Teeth slipped, a tingling cluster of kisses wound down his throat, and at the juncture of neck and shoulder pain pulsed through his skin.

And at that blazing sting, at the well of blood, he came undone. A cry staggered off his lips to scrape against the walls of the chamber. Eyelids shuttered, in open-mouthed blankness he rode each tremor of ecstasy, and against him Melkor rutted; with grunts clattering in his ear, a mangled thing that might have been his name, he lurched into his own climax even as Mairon slackened beneath him.

Slowly ardor wilted in the Maia's limbs. He noted the stickiness of tears crusted over his cheeks, the ache of abused flesh around his master's softening length, the prickle in his hands as Melkor's fingers unclenched. In discomfort he squirmed; he rubbed life back into his fingers, he swayed his hips and whined as that tentative motion stabbed pain through him.

The silence that followed was moiling, turbid, and in it Melkor stirred. He lifted his head from the crook of his lieutenant's neck, swiping gentle fingers over the bruised skin there, and Mairon knew he was wiping away blood. With deliberate care his master pulled out; he settled at his side, head propped up with one hand.

And as the sweat started to cool on his body, only the flickers of nausea remained, that roiling realization of just what he had allowed. But it had been done. Numbness stole in, a thin, frigid pall, and his stare lodged into the ceiling.

"May I go now, my lord?" Mairon whispered into the cloying stillness, and beside him Melkor sighed. The flame of his temper had been doused into a smolder; he gazed at him strangely.

"Are you hurt?" Gingerly fingers probed at his jaw, over the hurting red speckled across his cheek; they coaxed his head to the side, to look his master in the eye.

"No," he lied. He swallowed down the bile that brimmed in his throat and could not quite bring himself to smile. Viscidity tipped into the room, and he blinked away the seconds.

At last Melkor nodded. "If you wish."

So painfully he picked himself up, scrambling out of bed, trying not to wince as white-hot bolts ripped through his pelvis. In silence he shrugged on whatever remained of his garments, flinging his hair over his face as he bent to lace up his breeches, thankful for the veil it cast between him and the room. As fleetly as he could manage on shaky legs he took his leave, and forced himself not to glance back.


End file.
